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Liyue Harbor is full of life during the evening hours: day fishers pull up to the docks and tie their boats up tight, unloading their catches for the day with pride and excitement, while their night fishing counterparts load up their boats with supplies—rope, tackle, and plenty of empty storage in the hopes of a bountiful catch.
Street vendors call out to passersby, selling all manner of trinkets, novelties, and snacks. Children run down the wide, stone streets and their shrieks of laughter fill the air.
Childe watches it all from the balcony of one of his favorite restaurants. Once he'd begun eating here regularly, with Zhongli accompanying him, Childe had put in a standing reservation for the private balcony overlooking the harbor. It has been well worth the price thus far.
Dinner had been served and finished a little while ago, replaced by another pot of tea. It has a subtle and sweet flavor and Childe is glad Zhongli had encouraged him to, ah, expand his palate.
"I find myself in need of Mora," Zhongli says, then, setting his cup of tea onto the table.
A bit out of the blue, but Zhongli has always been one to surprise him. "Heh, sure, how much are we talking?"
The corner of Zhongli's mouth falls into a thoughtful frown. "It is…not quantifiable, at the moment."
Childe throws his head back and laughs. "Xiansheng, how do you not have an idea on the estimated costs? Are you going to tell me about this Mora-sink you've come across?"
Zhongli's frown melts away, replaced by a wry smile. His eyes glimmer in the candlelight, teasing and mischievous. "No," he says, hands clasped together atop the table. "I cannot tell you, unfortunately. And you know how I am with Mora—its value is a fickle thing, rising and falling like the tide in the harbor."
"Xiansheng, as much as I don't mind covering our dinners and such—those are things I can write off in expense reports to Pantalone. Can you tell me if it will be under a hundred thousand, at least? I can cover that, easy. Possibly up to half a million with a little fudging here and there."
Zhongli's gaze is warm and steady. "Oh, no. It will be at least in the millions."
Childe rubs his cheek with the palm of his hand and says, with a sigh, "Millions? For a secret project? I can ask, certainly, but I don't see it being approved."
It's true—while Childe is willing to stretch the limits of his expense reports to satisfy their dinners together, or Zhongli's whims during their walks through Liyue Harbor, or other extraneous activities that cost the odd ten or twenty thousand Mora, millions is an entirely different story. Pantalone would visit Liyue himself for the sole purpose of stringing Childe up by his ankles and lecturing him about misappropriation of Fatui funds.
Zhongli, to his credit, doesn't appear deterred. He hums, thoughtfully. "We could make a contract—I could spar with you, train you to fight."
"I know how to fight." Childe smirks. He rests his elbow on the table, cheek in hand, and stares deviously at Zhongli. "I'm quite good at it, actually."
"Of course you are," Zhongli says. Coming from someone else, it might've sounded placating; Zhongli sounds sincere. "However, I have over six thousand years of experience on you. There is still much for you to learn, and the training of an elite soldier such as yourself—by a retired Archon, no less—well, that would not come cheap."
Now that's an interesting offer; it'll certainly get approved—the Tsaritsa demands her officers keep in top form and learning from a rival Archon, no matter how friendly their relations may be, is undoubtedly an edge. But Childe isn't one to agree to things so easily.
"One condition," Childe says. "You and I spar, first. If you win, I'll agree to the training. If not…" He shrugs. "You'll have to get creative."
Zhongli considers him, gaze heavy and thoughtful, and says, "I accept your condition." Zhongli then picks up his napkin off of the table, dabs his mouth, and sets it back down. He stands and extends a hand to Childe. "Shall we?"
Childe stares at Zhongli's outstretched hand. "Xiansheng…right now? It's late and we just ate. I'm about to combust."
"Fights do not always occur at opportunistic times, Childe." Zhongli sends him a wry smile and keeps his hand out, refusing to back down. "Take my hand and we'll be off."
"Well," Childe says, flummoxed, but not one to back down from a challenge so clearly presented to him. "In that case, how could I refuse?"
***
Together, they head toward the Golden House just outside of Liyue Harbor.
It isn't Childe's first choice of arena; he may have weekly sparring sessions there with Aether, but it had been Zhongli's domain long before Childe had arrived in Snezhnaya. Not that Childe will let it stop him—if Zhongli wants to fight him there, then Childe will delight in pressing Zhongli against the stacks of Mora that bear his visage.
When Childe enters the Golden House, he wonders what Zhongli sees. There are scuff marks along the tile, cracks in the wall from where Childe had thrown Aether against it, and even the hole or two in the floor from Aether's, ah, creative use of his elemental talents.
"The rules are as follows," Zhongli says, elegantly shrugging off his coat and folding it neatly. He sets it atop the low wall separating the arena from the rest of the Golden House. "No Vision. No Delusion. Weapons only—and we spar until first blood."
Childe raises an eyebrow. "Xiansheng, you wound me. You know my Vision is my weapon."
Zhongli clasps his hands behind his back. His gaze is intense, unyielding, and stirs something warm and molten in Childe's stomach. "Are you saying you cannot fight without your Vision, Childe? If so, your situation is far more dire than I had imagined."
"I can fight without my Vision. I just don't think it should be off-limits. In the real world, it's important to be able to use all of the tools at your disposal. But," Childe says, grinning wickedly, "if it is a stipulation of the fight, then I will concede. I have other tools, after all." Childe rolls his wrists, then holds out his hand. A sleek blue and white bow materializes into existence.
Across the room, Zhongli holds out his arm as well. A spear appears in his hand—long, with a red-black shaft and a burning red, double-pointed spearhead—and Zhongli idly spins it between his fingers.
With most adversaries, Childe can get away with rushing in blindly; very few entities in Teyvat are a match for someone with his expertise. Zhongli, however, is one of them—and Childe is down a Vision and a Delusion.
He will have to think through this fight carefully.
Zhongli does not approach; he stands almost casually across the room, toying with the spear. His eyes remain locked on Childe, gaze heavy and unblinking.
As soon as Childe nocks the first arrow, Zhongli rushes forward. And then it's a game of chase—Childe flits from one side of the room to the other, just barely staying out of Zhongli's range enough to avoid his relentless attacks.
Every arrow Childe fires is easily blocked by Zhongli's spear. It's—it's infuriating; they don't get anywhere near Zhongli, let alone close enough to break skin. He’s spending too much time trying to stay ahead of Zhongli and not enough time focusing on his shot. If only he could get to higher ground, somewhere Zhongli would perhaps not follow…
Childe glances furtively around the room. There are several pillars enclosing the rooms with large, jagged cracks marring the stone and thick stone beams connecting each of them together. If Childe could somehow climb up he’d have the perfect vantage point.
The cracks—likely from his weekly sparring with Aether, or perhaps from the unending, unkind passage of time—could work as hand and footholds. The only issue is Zhongli isn’t likely to sit and watch while Childe scales them. But if Childe catches him off-guard…
Childe nocks an arrow, aims it at the ceiling above Zhongli, and fires. Zhongli tracks its movement, expression puzzled and head tilting up to watch the arrow speed toward nothing in particular, and then Childe takes the opportunity to do something so stupid it's practically genius:
He throws his bow at Zhongli.
It hits Zhongli straight in the face, not hard enough to make him bleed, unfortunately, but still startling enough to stop him in his tracks for a heartbeat, two, while Childe scrambles up the nearest pillar. Stone dust falls into his hair from the cracks he uses as handholds, nearly falling into his eyes as well, but he doesn’t have the time to be careful.
He heaves himself up onto one of the stone beams connecting two of the pillars in the room and thrusts his hand to the side. His bow materializes in it once more—sleek and beautiful—and Childe aims straight for Zhongli. He takes a breath, then fires.
Zhongli bats the arrow away with his spear. Damn it.
But then—Zhongli tosses his spear aside, where it disappears into mist, and begins to climb up the pillar after Childe, leaving his side exposed; it’s impossible to climb with only one hand, after all.
It’s the perfect opportunity. Childe aims again, grinning wildly. He can taste the victory that's imminent.
He adjusts his stance, stepping back just a little, and his foot catches on an uneven patch of stone. Fuck. He wobbles, unsteady, and holds his arms out to his side to try and regain his balance.
It doesn’t work.
He falls.
Childe is immediately faced with two choices: he can try and land safely or he can try and get one last shot in at Zhongli while he’s halfway up the pillar. If Childe misses, he’ll likely be down for the count. If he doesn’t… if he draws blood, he wins.
Childe would like very much to win.
He twists in the air, mid-fall, and nocks one more arrow. He has just enough time to pull the bowstring back and fire before he slams against the ground. He doesn't get a chance to see if his shot hits.
All of the air leaves his body at the impact. His body feels like—like it's been split in two, vision doubled and nerves screaming in pain. Not even the Abyss had hurt this much. It's a cold kind of pain, the kind that comes close to numb but never quite makes it that far. Very wrong, very bad, very broken inside.
Childe lays immobilized, sprawled on his back, and through his swimming vision he sees a swirl of grey, and brown, and gleaming gold eyes. A pressure pushes down on his chest—not enough for it to hurt, at least compared to the all-encompassing cold fire lighting up every inch of his skin, but enough to keep him still—and something long and dark swings in front of his face.
Metal presses against his cheek. Soft at first, then harder, until he feels a sharp sting that fades as quickly as it had come. And then Zhongli kneels next to him, caressing Childe's stinging cheek with his thumb.
"First blood," Zhongli murmurs, pulling his hand away.
“Xiansheng,” Childe says, or tries to, tongue thick in his mouth as he stares, disoriented, at the bloody smear on Zhongli’s thumb. His head fucking pounds, and his entire body won't stop aching in terrible ways he cannot begin to describe, but Zhongli does not respond. Instead he tilts Childe's chin up, pulls out a vial, and forces a cool liquid down his throat.
Childe sputters, choking, but Zhongli presses up on his chin until he closes his mouth, then massages Childe's throat with his thumb until he swallows. "There. Better now?"
A tingling warmth spreads through Childe's body, not unlike the sensation of approaching a Statue of the Seven after a tough fight. The incessant ringing fades, and his limbs grow loose and limp rather than rigid from pain, and Childe is going to need to figure out what the hell was in that vial. His cheek no longer stings. He can breathe without labored wheezing. The agonizing ice within him melts into a pleasant warmth. It lasts a second, maybe two, enough for Childe to taste a hint of peace but not long enough for him to lose himself in it.
Whatever it is—it's pure, unadulterated healing power.
He focuses on Zhongli, who is staring down at him with an eyebrow raised, and Childe sighs. “Fair’s fair, I guess. I’ll send an expense report to Pantalone in the morning.”
“Excellent. Once you hear back, we can begin the training regimen I have planned out for you.”
Hold on. “When I hear back? You mean we can’t start tomorrow?” The second part of Zhongli’s sentence hits him then. “And what do you mean you have a training regimen planned out? We finished sparring less than a minute ago.”
Zhongli rises to his feet, then holds out his hand to Childe and helps him up. “A contract cannot be signed without all parties in agreeance; as the funds are dispersed by Pantalone, his signature is just as needed as yours.”
Zhongli walks toward the edge of the arena and grabs his folded coat from the low wall. As he pulls it back on, looking elegant and put together as though they didn’t just finish a brutal sparring session, he says, “And yes, Childe. I would be remiss if I did not have a regimen already prepared. I am supposed to train you, am I not?”
Before Childe can respond, Zhongli is out the door. Childe is left with a strange mix of emotions: disappointment at losing a fight, even one with Zhongli, and excitement at the prospect of continuing to work and spar with him.
Childe sends the letter to Pantalone on the last ship out of Liyue that night.
***
They meet the next day for a late lunch at Wanmin Restaurant. Childe's entire body thrums with anticipation, all jittery and unable to keep still, and it translates into his fingers tapping against the bartop as they wait for their food, then into his leg bouncing once his hands are needed for eating.
Zhongli's hand settles atop Childe's thigh under the bar. The restless energy bleeds out of Childe at the warm, supportive touch, at Zhongli's firm grip. Zhongli isn't—he isn't even looking at Childe, as if calming Childe down is second nature to him. And perhaps by now it is.
"You are fine," Zhongli says between bites of the bamboo shoot soup he'd ordered. "Now eat."
Childe eats. As much as he enjoys the bamboo shoot soup alongside Zhongli, whenever they visit Wanmin Restaurant he orders the black-back perch stew in the hope that Xiangling will be in to make her special version of it. She hadn't been in today, unfortunately. But Chef Mao's cooking is just as good—if not as adventurous—and it isn't long before Childe's bowl is empty on the counter.
Next to him, Zhongli is not even halfway done with his own soup. Before Childe can open his mouth to speak, Zhongli scoops a large piece of meat, dripping with broth, from his bowl and into Childe’s. Then Zhongli picks out one or two of each of the vegetables and deposits them in Childe’s bowl as well.
Zhongli nods his head toward the food and says, again: “Eat.”
Wordlessly, Childe picks up his chopsticks and eats. When he’s finished he rests his elbow on the counter, cheek in hand. He stares at Zhongli, eyes lidded. “I ate too much. I can’t move.”
Zhongli smiles and takes a sip of broth. He still doesn't look at Childe. “Then you ate just enough.”
"Oh, you're devious. Don't tell me you're going to ask to spar now." Childe stretches, arms above his head, and then falls limp, boneless and satiated, against the bar. "That's how you beat me yesterday. I know it. I only fell because my balance was off after that delicious dinner we had."
Zhongli chuckles. "No sparring, not until Pantalone responds to your inquiry."
"Not going to argue the claim that you make sure I'm stuffed before kicking my ass? Interesting. I see right through you, Xiansheng."
Zhongli smiles down at his now empty bowl for a quiet moment. Then he glances over at Childe. "Too full for a cup of tea?"
Childe laughs, loud and jubilant in the mid-afternoon air. "I will never be too full for tea." Something clicks in his brain at the thought. "Hey, what was that stuff you gave me yesterday?"
Zhongli blinks at him, slow like a cat. "I gave you a cut on the cheek, if that's what you're asking."
"And it's healed. You gave me something that made me feel… almost new. Haven't felt this good since, Archons, since I was a kid."
Zhongli slides off his stool with an enigmatic smile. "Why, Childe, I don't know what you mean."
***
The next few weeks pass much the same way. They go out to eat, or for a walk around Liyue Harbor, and Childe asks if they can spar. Each time Zhongli responds by asking the status of their inquiry to Pantalone, and each time he smiles and says, "Then no sparring," when Childe grumbles about how he hasn't heard back yet.
It's the same song and dance, endlessly, until:
“You’ve been spending more time here than usual,” Ekaterina says. She sets a new stack of reports and letters on top of Childe’s desk. When he reaches for them, Ekaterina places her hand flat atop the stack, resting her entire weight on it, and says, “Tartaglia, sir. Are you alright?”
Childe stares at her, confused. “Of course I am.” He tries to reach for the stack of reports again, but Ekaterina does not budge.
Ekaterina purses her lips. “And you and… the consultant for the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. Is everything… well?”
“Everything is fine.” Childe laughs. “Are you alright? You don’t typically ask me how I’m doing out of the blue.”
"You've been spending more time here lately," Ekaterina says, but she removes her hand from the stack of reports and mail. She pushes it slightly toward him. "The last time you spent this much time at the bank, well… that was when you and the consultant had a disagreement. I know you two are close."
A disagreement. That's the understatement of the century. After Zhongli had pulled that little trick with the gnosis, Childe had sworn he'd never speak to the man again. Funny how things change.
He reaches for the pile of paper and begins to rifle through it. "We're fine. I'm just waiting on something from—"
And there it is, a thin envelope sealed with Pantalone's insignia stamped against silver wax. Childe smiles. "Something from Pantalone," he finishes. He waves the envelope between two fingers and Ekaterina rolls her eyes.
"Have fun, sir," she says, and walks out of his office.
Childe tears the letter open immediately.
My dearest Eleventh, it reads. This is an interesting request. Our beloved Tsaritsa, may she reign eternal, has claimed a personal interest and approved this extra training, along with granting an extension to your stay in Liyue until further notice.
Do not let her down.
Childe’s entire body buzzes with excitement. He dashes out of his office, out of the Northland Bank, and straight toward Wangsheng Funeral Parlor to tell Zhongli the good news. It’s time. It’s finally time. They can spar again.
He jerks open the door to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor and nods to Meng, who is hunched over the front desk. Then he heads toward Zhongli’s office, where he finds Zhongli shuffling through a pile of paperwork.
There are brown glasses perched on the end of his nose, and when he looks up and sees Childe, he smiles and slides them off. "Good afternoon," he says, opening a drawer and setting the glasses inside.
Beaming, Childe holds up the letter from Pantalone. "Officially approved!" His laughter is bright and jubilant even in the house of death. "Are you busy? Can we go spar?"
Zhongli bends down to open one of the bottom drawers of his desk. "No, I am not busy," he says, and Childe's heart pounds with excitement, anticipation, with something that twists his stomach into eager knots. But then Zhongli continues: "And no, we cannot go spar right now."
Childe's heart stutters to a stop. The knots in his stomach become nauseating. After everything, after waiting for so long, Zhongli is going back on his promise? It doesn't make sense. It's in their contract. "We… can't?"
Zhongli shakes his head as he pulls out a folded set of clothes from the desk drawer. He sets them atop his desk and pushes them toward Childe. "It's not time to spar yet," he says, "but it is time to start the training regimen I put together. Go ahead and change into these—they should be your size. I asked Ekaterina for your measurements." After a moment, he adds, "And, Childe, we will spar—this I promise you. But first we must build up your foundation."
Mollified, Childe nods. The roiling nausea dissipates and is replaced with the same excitement as before—though not as strong—as determination sets in alongside it.
Childe picks up the set of folded clothes. They're surprisingly lightweight, made of a grey fabric that feels soft against Childe's touch. He tosses the top piece over his shoulder and shakes out the bottom to find they're a pair of shorts. He switches them—shorts over his shoulder, shaking out the top piece of the set—and discovers that it's a sleeveless shirt.
"No offense, Zhongli, but these aren't exactly the height of fashion." He glances over at Zhongli to find him smiling, and Childe shakes his head fondly. "Why do you want me to wear this, anyway?"
"You and I are going to train your stamina today." Zhongli reaches into the same drawer as before and pulls out a similar set of clothes, presumably for himself. "Endurance running has a great number of benefits," he says. "The most obvious benefit being stamina, naturally, but it has been found to also increase lung capacity, strengthen mental fortitude, and improve specific subsets of muscles. All of which will help you become a better, well-rounded warrior."
Childe stares at the outfit in Zhongli's hands. "You're running with me?"
"Would you rather run alone?"
Childe shakes his head. "No, it just… reminds me of basic training. But the trainers—they always stood off to the side and ordered everyone else around. The mere idea of them joining us had been laughable.”
Zhongli stands up and shrugs off his coat. "I wouldn't ask you to do something that I would not do myself," he says, then nods toward the door. "Now go change—the next office over should be empty. I will meet you at the front door in a few minutes."
Childe turns and slips out the door, but as he closes it behind him, he's struck by the sight of Zhongli shrugging off his shirt and placing it atop his coat. And then Zhongli's fingers fall to his trousers, his strong hips accentuated by the toned plane of his stomach.
Childe doesn't slam the door shut. He closes it softly, gently, hoping that Zhongli hadn't noticed him staring for longer than necessarily appropriate, and then he hurries into the next room to change as well.
The outfit Zhongli had given him fits well and reminds Childe, yet again, of Fatui basic training. They had worn something similar, except that fabric had been long-sleeved, warm, and most importantly waterproof, tailored for Snezhnaya's year-round snowfall.
Once Childe finishes up, he leaves his original outfit on an empty shelf to claim later, then slips out to meet Zhongli at the front door.
Zhongli is wearing the same thing as Childe and yet he manages to make it look divine. The sleeveless top fits snug against his chest, usually hidden under multiple layers, and it is just as toned as Morax's statues.
Perhaps more toned. Despite how well-cared for Morax’s statues are, time still takes its toll and wears away stone.
His biceps, normally hidden under the long sleeves of his favored coat, are defined and strong—not huge, but they don't need to be. Not when he carries the strength of a god.
Childe's mouth goes dry. He's had over a year to get over his attraction to Zhongli and for the most part he's been pretty good about keeping it cool. He lets Zhongli touch him without getting all worked up, like the other day at Chef Mao's, and he can finally look at Zhongli without getting his stomach all twisted into knots. It helps that Zhongli usually dresses in the same manner day in and day out. Half of the time he's able to forget his feelings are even there, locked up tight and buried in the recesses of his mind.
But this is a lot. It's innocuous, really, but somehow this is what frays the edges of Childe's self-composure: Zhongli wearing a plain grey workout set. And they’re matching.
“Ready?” Childe says, lucky that his voice doesn’t crack then and there.
Zhongli opens the door and gestures for Childe to go through. “After you.”
***
Childe’s shirt sticks to his back, slick with sweat. They aren’t even doing anything strenuous—Zhongli had suggested they jog up the paths of Mount Tianheng. And then he’d suggested they jog down. Then back up.
This is, what, their third round up and down the mountain? Zhongli hasn’t even broken a sweat, keeping pace with Childe and jogging right next to him.
They reach the path at the bottom of the mountain; Zhongli slows down a little, letting Childe pass him. Maybe ex-Archons do have a limit on their stamina.
And then something hits Childe in the back, right above his shoulder blades, punting him face-first into the dirt. “What the—”
He pushes himself up on his elbows and watches Zhongli’s feet come into view.
“Lesson one,” Zhongli says, “Never turn your back to a foe.” He crouches, right next to Childe’s face, and reaches out his hand to tilt Childe’s chin up to face him. “Lesson two,” he says, eyes gleaming in the warm afternoon light, “Never let down your guard.”
"I'm not stupid." Irrational anger floods through Childe, sweeping everything else away. He climbs to his feet and fixes Zhongli with a hard stare. "I grew up fighting in the Abyss. I don't trust a damn soul out here. I don't let my guard down and I certainly don't turn my back on anyone."
"You just did."
"You—" Childe breathes through his nose, harsh and heavy. He clenches his fists and tries to ignore the memories of Zhongli's betrayal threatening to resurface, threatening to pull him under the depths and drown him again. He's moved on, and healed, and forgiven Zhongli. It doesn't need to haunt him anymore. He exhales, shoulders falling. "You're the only exception."
Something shifts in Zhongli's gaze. "Childe," he says, voice soft and eyes softer. "There shouldn't be any exceptions."
"Yeah, well, I'm not very good at listening when people tell me I shouldn't do something." Childe turns away, deliberately putting his back to Zhongli, and starts jogging back up the mountain.
After a moment, Zhongli follows. The solid thud of his feet against the ground is soothing, almost.
They jog up and down Mount Tianheng twice before Childe loses steam, sweat pouring down his face. He comes to a slow stop at the bottom of the hill, transitioning from a light jog to a walk to cool down, and lifts the hem of his tank to wipe off the worst of the sweat.
Zhongli walks alongside him. “How do you feel?”
“Tired,” Childe says. His muscles burn, but it’s pleasant. He used to love running back in basic, but after fighting up the ranks to Harbinger it had fallen out of his routine. He’ll have to get back into it. “But good. Really good.”
He’s not out of shape by any means, but their jog revealed a key few areas he’ll need to build up. Namely, stamina.
Next to him, Zhongli nods. “Excellent,” he says. “I’m glad.”
They lapse into a comfortable silence as they walk back into town. Instead of returning to the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, as Childe had expected, Zhongli leads them down to his apartment near the edge of the docks.
It’s a constant reminder of humanity, Zhongli had told him once, after Childe had asked why he lived so close to the busiest part in the harbor—where the yelling never stops whether it’s the middle of the day or the middle of the night. And I like it.
It’s mid-evening, so it’s louder than usual. The fishermen who’d been out at sea during the day dock their boats and unload their catches while the fishermen who’ll take their place tonight hustle about the piers and prepare for a full night of fishing.
Zhongli pays them no mind, unlocking his door with a quiet little click and ushering Childe inside.
“Go on and get in the bath,” Zhongli says, closing the door behind them. “I’ll bring you a change of clothes.”
Childe raises an eyebrow. “Xiansheng, don’t tell me you have a secret stash of my clothes hanging about. How scandalous.”
“Very funny. No, I was going to let you borrow some of mine.”
"Well, don't expect to get them back," Childe calls out as he heads to the bath down the hall, laughing.
He slips behind the folding screen next to the tub. It's already full of hot, steaming water. Childe isn't sure how Zhongli manages it, considering he'd been gone all day, but he chalks it up to the eternal mysteries of Zhongli’s adeptal powers. He strips, peeling off his sweat-soaked clothes and tossing them right outside the folding screen, then steps into the tub.
The water is divine. Most tubs aren't suited to people of Childe's height—too cramped, too small, not built for anyone above average height—but Zhongli's tub is perfect. He's able to slide down into the floral-scented water, all the way up to his neck, and his knees don't awkwardly stick out of the tub. The warmth envelops him, sinking into his overworked muscles and turning Childe loose-limbed and pliant.
He could fall asleep like this.
He does fall asleep like this. He's not sure how long—the water is still warm, but that isn't much of an indicator of time, not in Zhongli's apartment. Not when the water is always warm.
There's a change of clothes draped over the top of the folding screen now, along with a large, fluffy towel. With a groan, Childe pulls himself up and out of the bath. His fingers and toes have pruned and he shivers for the brief moments between leaving the water and wrapping himself up in the towel.
After drying himself off and tugging on Zhongli's clothes—and it's a bit weird wearing Zhongli's clothes, truth be told—Childe leaves the bath in search of Zhongli. It's not hard to find him; Zhongli's apartment isn't huge, by any stretch of the word, and Childe finds him sitting in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea.
Zhongli smiles as Childe joins him at the table, then pours Childe a cup of his own. "I take it you had a nice bath?"
Flushing, Childe nods. "Your tub is the best. I might steal it, xiansheng, so you might want to watch out."
"I could tell you enjoyed yourself by the way you were snoring," Zhongli says, expression innocent but eyes gleaming with mirth.
Childe waves the teasing away. "Please," he says, "I'd bet twenty-thousand Mora that you've fallen asleep in it too."
"Then you'd owe me twenty-thousand Mora." Zhongli takes another sip of his tea. "The only person who has ever used that tub is you."
Childe stares at Zhongli, mouth agape. "You've never—?"
"Never."
"Then why did you buy it in the first place? Don't tell me it came with the apartment."
"Of course not. I bought it for you."
Childe doesn't know how to respond to that, so he doesn't. He sits there, across from Zhongli, and feels the warmth of the tea against his palms. He blinks, and closes his eyes for a second, two seconds, and takes a breath. "Zhongli," he says, because as much as he adores calling him xiansheng, he doesn't think it's quite appropriate for this conversation. "Why did you buy a tub for me?" And why is it in your apartment, he almost adds. He doesn't.
"So you could make use of it," Zhongli says, the mirth in his eyes softening into something that Childe can't quite place. "I imagine that is why people buy most things, is it not?" He pauses for a moment, then says, "I had imagined you'd have more of a use for it, but we spend much of our time together out in the town. You're welcome to it anytime."
"I don't understand." Childe's heart beats wildly in his chest. His thoughts are dangerous. People don't go buying tubs specifically for their friends, not even strange retired Archons who aren't as familiar with societal norms. And the side note about imagining Childe would've had more of a use for it—that's, well. Childe forces himself to voice it. "Zhongli, are you saying you thought I'd move in with you?"
For the first time tonight, Zhongli looks unsettled. He glances down at his hands, curled around his tea cup. "I thought it could be a possibility."
"So... you bought me a tub?"
"That is correct."
"And then you forgot to actually ask me to move in." Even though we aren't in a relationship, and Zhongli isn’t the type to have roommates for fun, and there's only one bedroom in this apartment.
"Well," Zhongli says, a small smile gracing his face. "I didn't forget, per se. I merely decided to hold off."
"For what?"
"It's supposed to be a secret." Zhongli's eyes flit up to meet Childe's. "As it pertains to our current contract."
It hits Childe then—the reason why Zhongli would need an exuberant amount of Mora, why he'd hold off on asking Childe to move in with him. "Are you building us a house?!"
"Technically, it's already built. It remains unfurnished, though, hence the need for additional Mora—materials and labor can be quite expensive, as I hear."
"I—" Childe's heart has moved from his chest into his throat. "Zhongli, we aren't—we aren't in a relationship. We aren't seeing each other."
Zhongli's expression grows thoughtful. "Ah, I see. I have been courting you for quite some time, but it did not occur to me that you may not have noticed." He leans forward, across the table, and extends his hand to Childe. "If it isn't too late," he says, "I would very much like to court you officially."
Childe stares at Zhongli's outstretched hand, dumbfounded. Random memories from the last year surface: Zhongli constantly putting fond on his plate, ensuring that he's full and satiated and taken care of; Zhongli swinging by the bank to collect Childe for lunch, and dinner, and sometimes even breakfast; their frequent trips through Liyue Harbor, walking along the docks and talking about anything and everything; the way Zhongli knows just how to calm Childe down when he's jittery, or angry, or roiling with emotion.
Childe wants Zhongli, has wanted Zhongli, so badly that he's spent most of his time repressing it. He'd never thought anything would come from their relationship, had never thought anything could come from their relationship, so to have that all thrown away in a single minute has left him reeling. Zhongli wants him.
Childe reaches out and places his hand atop Zhongli's. "Okay," he says, and it sounds fucking stupid saying it like that but he can't find the words to say more. "Okay," he says again. "I would like that too. I would like that very much. Fuck, I want to kiss you."
Zhongli's eyes glimmer. "What's stopping you?"